The Birth of the Gods

"From the Heliconian Muses let us begin to sing, who hold the great and holy mount of Helicon, and dance on soft feet about the deep-blue spring and the altar of the almighty son of Cronos, and, when they have washed their tender bodies in Permessus or in the Horse's Spring or Olmeius, make their fair, lovely dances upon highest Helicon and move with vigorous feet. Thence they arise and go abroad by night, veiled in thick mist, and utter their song with lovely voice, praising Zeus …"

If we want to create something beautiful—whether it’s a poem, a painting, or a brand new home—how do we begin? Do we look into our hearts or to the heavens for inspiration? How do we make our vision a reality for everyone to share?

In this passage, the Greek poet Hesiod evokes the Muses to help him compose his epic chronicle, "The Birth of the Gods." Somehow he must find the words to describe how the Earth and Love itself emerged from primordial Chaos to form the harmony of the spheres.

In his mind’s eye, he sees the Muses on their holy mountaintop. On a spiritual level, they act as mediators between the gods and humanity. More practically, they represent the disciplines of a classical education: comedy, tragedy, history, astronomy, dance, song, and of course, poetry in all of its aspects, from religious and romantic verse to epic tales.

When we first read this ancient masterpiece, we should taste the syllables of “Heliconian” and “Permessus” on our tongues, and allow their sounds to transport us into another world. It is in this way that we respond to exotic names in fantasy literature, such as “Galadriel” or “Voldemort.” Only then should we reach for the encyclopedia to learn that Mount Helicon is near the Gulf of Corinth in Greece, that “Permessus,” “the Horse’s Spring” and “Olmeius” all relate to sacred waters, and that “the almighty son of Cronos” is Zeus himself.

The references to “highest Helicon,” to the “deep-blue spring” and to the king of all the gods portray art as a striving toward the ideal, the pure, the absolute. If this threatens to become too ethereal, the “vigorous feet” of the Muses connect forcefully with the ground.

The Muses dance both day and night. Initially, we see them in brilliant sunshine, where the waters match the motion of their flowing bodies and the liquid chords of their song. Then they disappear into the “thick mist”—brooding in divine mystery and majesty. Now we sense rather than see their presence, hearing their voices cry out in the dark, like a chorus of angels.

In an age that deems ugliness profound, the Muses are truly subversive. “Lovely"—a word often condemned for being sentimental—is repeated emphatically by the translator, the Oxford archaeologist Hugh G. Evelyn Wright. (More Indiana Jones than dusty academic, he was present with Lord Carnarvon at the discovery of Tutankhamen’s tomb and was one of the first to gaze upon the prince’s mummy, wrapped within its golden sarcophagus.)

Do we dismiss the “lovely dances” of the Muses as irrelevant to modern life or do we allow ourselves a moment of praise? For Hesiod, praise is at the core of art and creation. He praises the Muses, while they in turn praise Zeus as their vision of perfection. Who or what would we praise as our highest value?

Reading this passage, I am reminded of a particular mountaintop I once found while wandering through the labyrinthine corridors of the Vatican: "The Parnassus" by Raphael. In this large fresco, we see the Muses surrounded by the great authors of the western canon. Homer is flanked by Virgil and Dante, for instance, uniting the classical and the contemporary.

Raphael’s point is clear: art goes beyond the petty designations of past, present, and future. Art exists in its own time. Artists who listen to the Muses step into this time and—with skill, dedication, and luck on their side—may become immortal, like Hesiod, when they die.

Hesiod was a Greek poet who is thought to have lived between 750 and 650 BC. "The Birth of the Gods or Theogony" is his account of how the universe came into being.

Christopher Nield is a poet living in London.